today’s walk in the park
http://gmap-pedometer.com/?r=5116933
(Preceded by a jaunt out to costco, where we got fish. and more fish. and
some chicken. and envelopes.)
(Well, the envelopes weren’t from costco, but close enough; costco is in a
massive multistory shopping building, and target is on another floor).
(portions of the walk are guesses as the paths through the ramble are not
marked)
This was my first time actually *in* central park. It’s not all that (says
the man from the urban bay area, where large open space preserves are right
at your footstep), but it was nice enough, and it was really the first place
i’ve been in manhattan where it was possible for a while to harbor the
illusion of not being in the middle of a big city. The skyline off of the
reservoir is particularly pretty, and the open grassy areas are appealing.
Like most of manhattan, it’s not flat, even though I imagined it as such
before moving here.
The walk was cut short by an unexpected *heavy* downpour. We huddled under a
bridge for a while, trying to wait it out, listening to the murmurings of
the rain, the mutterings of an insane homeless person, and the chattering of
tourists. I practiced meditating, and felt much more patient and happy once
it occurred to me to do so – prior to that I had been restless and bored, as
you can get, waiting under a bridge for the rain to finish. Eventually it
lightened up and J- went to buy dessert; meanwhile, I wandered back through
the park to go to one of our two most frequent grocery stores (the closer
one is north of us and would probably not have had lemongrass). I went by an
indirect route; the rain wasn’t bugging me, and I wanted a long walk.
On the way, I ran into a couple, leaning against the fence in front of the
reservoir, one of them trying to take a picture of them both. I did the
obvious thing; I volunteered to take their picture. ![]()
October 01, 2011 at 05:35PM
Intermittent update
Depending on how you count it, it’s been a month since we moved – our official move in date was the 2d, but we flew out here on the 31st, and today’s the 1st.
There’s a degree to which the 31st doesn’t count, but then again there’s a degree to which it does; we arrived that night and had to go get dinner, after all, and that night was my first real experience with the big city – stumbling around in the dark, overwhelmed by the constant motion of people.
It’s somewhat amazing how quickly the new becomes normal, at least for me. I’m still referring to California, and the bay area, as “home” in the context of comparisons – “beer was less expensive at home”, etc. (and, oh my god. hippie meats were a metric ****tonne lest expensive at home. but i digress). But on the other hand, when walking back from the office to the train station on Thursday, waiting for a light to change so I could cross the street, I found myself thinking about how unwilling I was to jaywalk, unlike at home, where I would have been across the street long since – and in that case, by ‘home’, I meant my new home, not my old one. So: manhattan is kind of home now, kind of not.
I imagine that’s about what is to be expected after a month.
—–
We’re still not fully unpacked. My boxes of books are sitting in a corner waiting for the bookcase to be unpacked, and all our paintings/photos/artwork are sitting in my grandmother’s trunk, waiting for us to find the time to hang them up. In part that’s because neither the trunk nor the bookcase arrived before i went back to work; in part it’s because much of my non-work time is filled up, and both of these will be osmewhat time consuming tasks.
Filled up with what, you might ask? Well, Friday nights, the local university has a surprisingly well attended board game (and D&D) club, and I’ve been going to their weekly game nights (J- has gone once, but has otherwise not been). Sundays, meanwhile, are largely consumed by the ultimate frisbee league i joined. (This will eventually be a good thing. Right now it’s just exhausting and reminds me of how out of shape I am – no, really, I have endurance for walking and bicycling but not running – and how incompetent I am at sports in general. I’m the weak league on the team and, while I’ll get better, I will be for at least a year.) That leaves a day and a half weekend time — and while there are weeknights, the length of my commute means that they’re basically no-ops as far as getting anything done.
Still, the commute isn’t bad, particularly if I work from home 1-2 days a week; I get forced exercise (~5 mi round trip, broken into shorter chunks) plus lots of reading time. Granted, it doesn’t *feel* like lots of reading time because I made the foolish decision to read the Wheel of Time series from beginning to almost-end, figuring this would prevent me from needing to spend money on books; and while it’s certainly done *that*, it also means that I’ve been reading the same story for more than a month now. I can’t imagine how people with normal reading speeds get through it.
It’s a little bit strange not having close friends about; we’ve met some people who will eventually develop into close friends, and the gaming club plus the frisbee league give me a stable of acquaintances, but it’s not the same. OTH, everyone is still online, and we’ve had a few people (four, at this count, in a month) from out of town wander through to say hi.
It’s early to tell if that’s a normal pattern or just bizarre timing, but either way, it’s a ncie thing right now.
—–
I don’t get enough time to experience it, and there are annoyances, but I’m really liking living in the city. There’s something about the density which makes distances seem shorter than they actually are; our favorite grocery store is ~3/4 mile away, but it’s also mentally just a few blocks away. This is a psychological trick, but it’s a psychological trick which leads to more exercise and greater happiness.
The density also leads to a feeling that something is always going on, and it encourages the fact that most of the grocery stores and a lot of the food carts are open round the clock. I came home from games at 12.30 last night; there were lots of people in the building where the games club meets, there were lots of people walking around, and in the six blocks between there and home, I passed two open food carts with lines of people trying to buy from them.
I also find that I just like the number of people about. I mean, sure, they get in the way sometimes … but in general I like people, and it’s nice to see crowds of people going about their business, and to be forced to interact on a nearly constant basis. Which isn’t to say that I don’t get stressed when Penn Station is full – but Penn Station is a unique kind of hell, a large cavernous maze of a building which becomes more like a maze when it’s crowded. (Seriously, I go there twice a day, and I almost always get lost. I hope it will get better). I’ve encountered very little of the stereotypical ashsole new yorker, for which i’m greatful; I wonder if it’s an artefact of where I live and the neighborhoods where I do most of my walking and commerce, but I’m certainly not going to complain. (Also, people’s accents seem to be way stronger in Jersey, which I’m a bit taken aback by. Not so much my coworkers, who speak essentially with the same accent Californians do, but the dudes working at dunkin’ donuts, and barnes and noble, and wendy’s, and the people stopping me on the street to ask for directions). (this is a useless thing to do; I know the route from the train to work, and that’s it. i have little incentive to go exploring there when i could instead be exploring here – here is more interesting, although there is certainly greener).
—–
I was thinking last night, as I walked home from games club in a downpour, that it rains more here than anywhere else I’ve ever lived. This isn’t astonishing; where I’ve lived before (that I would remember rain counts) is Texas and California, both of which are very dry. Still … it’s kind of impressive; it feels like most days it at least threatens rain. On the other hand, it’s a *warm* rain, at least at this time of year, unlike the santa cruz rains, which could be bitter, bitter cold. This isn’t a big thing, on either count, but it’s a strange thing.
It’s not as humid as it’s reputed to be, at least not right now; it was noticeable the first day or two but then I basically stopped noticing (although I do notice that I almost always have a thin layer of sweat about, if I’m walking or doing whatever, which is very different from at home – I would sweat about the same amount, probably, but it would evaporate).
—–
Work is … interesting. I am doing fudnamentally the same job, with the same team, so it’s easy to get back into, but the time difference still sorta wierds me out. When I leave at 5 i feel like i’m leaving at 2 even though i’ve been there for a full day; I always both feel guilty at leaving and feel like I *need* to leave in order to make it all work. It’s also kinda wierd not to have people around and ot have to use the phone as a lifeline.
This will feel natural in time, I’m sure. But for now … It still feels very, very wierd.
[and with that, i'm off to wander around central park for a while.
]
I am not a teller of stories, at least not yet; while I can spin words when I put my finger to the keyboard, if you ask me to speak stories in person, I’m likely to stammer and step all over them, and fail to communicate nearly as much as I succeed. I couldn’t survive in the Homeric world; my skillz wouldn’t be leet enough.
But this was a momentous weekend, at least symbolically, and so I will try.
I am no longer a student. I have earned my JD. I’ve spent four years feeling like I can’t commit everything I want to to work, and can’t commit everything I want to to school, and can’t commit to everything I want to with my husband, or my friends and family, or my health, or anything. There have been times where I’ve felt like I’m failing at everything, and otherwise I’ve mostly just felt like i’m getting by. And yet: I was promoted this spring. And, pending grades from my final quarter, I’m currently in the top 10% of my class (and just outside the top 5%), am graduating with honors, and am graduating with a better law school GPA than my undergraduate or high school GPAs.
Also inside: the best science fiction novel i’ve read since perdido street station (and possibly since the week during which I read ender’s game and the doomsday book in the same week), and a history of coffee.
The weekend began, ridiculously enough given that I had no time off work, on Thursday. Thursday morning I rose from bed, where I’d had little sleep, and after some woolgathering and coffee-drinking, set out to finish the task for the week. I organized my thoughts, finished adding the missing section of my paper, revamped the conclusion (adding as much again as I’d added in the lost section), and then called it done: forty five pages, twelveish thousand words. A paper fit for publishing (perhaps; that was, at any rate the goal – it doesn’t have to be published, but it has to be publishable, a descriptor I think is dubious absent an actual publication). After some not very productive time at work, I printed out a couple copies of it, and drove to school, where I turned it in: the last assignment.
It’s a nice feeling, to have studied a small corner of the law so well that I now know more about it than almost anyone. It’s one of the first times I’ve actually felt the pleasure of specialization, rather than the pain of having to restrict my curiousity and focus on one thing: unless the law changes, and I fail to keep abreast of the change, I am now an ‘expert’ on a ridiculously narrow topic. (The summary version: back in the early part of the last decade, the Supreme Court decided a couple of cases whose holding basically was that, in cases where a mandatory sentencing scheme is set up so that the presence of an aggravated factor [such as, the crime being the result hatred for a particular religious group], the presence of the aggravated factor must be found by a jury, not a judge. The Court, without really justifying itself well, carved out a single exception: the fact that the dude had a prior conviction can be found by the sentencing judge without a jury’s determination. But what if the judge has to decide whether the prior conviction were particularly cruel, say, or whether the crime underlying the prior conviction had been done because of an impermissibly biased motive, etc? That’s the topic of my paper.
)
It was also a surprising relieving feeling to be done. I hadn’t expected that; I hadn’t realized just how much stress was entailed simply in having the responsibility of being a student, even if I wasn’t feeling overwhelmed by whatever I needed to be doing just now – a low-lying underlying stress and worry which was present even when I wasn’t actively feeling overwhelmed, a constant undercurrent which only became noticeable when it was gone. It was gone. I was free. It felt glorious.
I picked up my cap and gown, drove back to work, and had a fight with a coworker. The short version: the project I was loaned out to is close to shipping, and one of the engineers is responding out of self-interest to the incentives that the management team has set up rather than responding out of concern for the quality of the product. In this case, the incentives are actively counterproductive and will result in a lower quality outcome, because people are so worried about how things look that they will sacrifice function for beauty, and prefer to paper over blemishes rather than admit that they are there and come up with a plan to remedy them later. This isn’t how I roll, and I find the experience of working with someone who does roll that way borderline infuriating.
I left the fight for the gym, had a nice workout, and then went to the weekend’s most somber event: dinner with erik’s widow and some friends of his that I mostly don’t know very well. I’ve gotten better over the years at making small talk with strangers, but this wierd semi-stranger state is harder, and the context made it difficult. I was glad to have gone – Erik dominated my thoughts for much of the week – but it was awkward nonetheless.
——–
Friday I was wiped out and didn’t want to get moving in the morning, and almost didn’t get the day started. I made it into work, got more work done than I’d expected, managed to get a brief gym trip in, and then drove to the city for dinner, with my husband, and my visiting uncle and my best friend and his wife. J had picked a set of restaurants for me to pick from (the weekend being mine); the list consisted of restaurants on the michelin ‘bib gourmand’ list (they don’t have stars, but they’re recommended for good value at a reasonable price). So Friday night we went to Colibri Mexican Bistro, whose food wasn’t spicy at all but was quite flavorful and very good.
Before dinner, after we’d been seated but before my friend and his wife arrived, my uncle gave me a graduation present: a pocket watch. which he’d gotten from his mother. which she’d gotten from her father.
I’m not a pocket watch kinda guy. Hell, I think watches in general are obsolete technology, supplanted by the cell phone. I would never buy such a thing. And yet … there’s something kinda neat about a century plus old family heirloom, given to me with respect; I cannot help but be touched by it. And … there are times, in my profession-of-becoming, when the ostentatious use of a pocket watch would be appropriate, and there are times when cell phones simply aren’t allowed and a pocket watch would be, and in those times, I will use this gift.
——–
Saturday was a bit rushed. I’d originally planned for a hike in the morning, but just didn’t feel like it; instead, we went to breakfast at an old favorite restaurant of our houseguests (who used to live up here but have not in five years – the waitress still recognized them, which was awesome). Then, after some hangout time while J baked a tart, I shaved, gathered my stuff, and drove to the city, where my friend B had lunch and a brief walk in the park. By the time we got back to the garage so I could change, J’s parents had shown up, along with his godfather, and I wandered around for a while trying to figure out where the overflow room for the ticketless was; I gave up on this task (which turned out to be unnecessary as he scored a last minute free ticket from someone), and went to go assemble for the giant class picture.
In your first year of law school, you take all your classes with the same cohort, and for the night cohort, at least, there was a strong bond between us. Most of that cohort switched to the full time program after their first year, and graduated last year (I didn’t go to their graduation, but I was still reeling from Erik’s death). But there were a small handful of us left, and we gathered together during the general milling about, and congratulated each other, and hugged each other, and generally kept each other company for one last time. The picture taking process was painful – how do you corral two hundred plus giddy soon-to-be-ex-law-students and get them to smile on cue? – and the photographer seemed flummoxed by the process.
After the picture, we milled about, as you do when you’re playing the hurry-up-and-wait game, and eventually they formed us into lines, where we contined to mill about, and then they marched us in.
Graduation was in a cathedral. My school was a Jesuit school, built long ago; the stained glass was stunning, the artwork behind the altar was phenomenal, the decorations on the pillars were neat, and the flowers they had strung between the pillars across the base of the arches (not visible in the picture) were just awesome. The setting was regal, and majesterial, and just right for a ceremony. I’m not a believer in ceremony as a day-to-day thing – in another era they would have said I don’t stand on ceremony – but for major events, it’s an important thing, to have the ritual to mark the transition, to have the ritual to solidify the feeling of completion and closure. It’s not necessary for the completion or closure, but it enhances and solidifies it, and marks it, and calls it out for its significance. And having this building for this ritual enhanced it immensely.
We filed in, through the audience in the back, to our seats in the front.
The student speaker is a guy I quite like, who is somewhere between an acquaintance and a friend, who has this phenomenal openness and energy and joy that he brings to everything he does, who is one of those people who can bring anyone out of a dark mood by simply being himself and being there; his speech was phenomenal. J found it banal and lacking in any original thought or feeling; the graduating class by and large loved it. I wonder how much of this was the delivery – and the fact that we were up front and so heard him, and saw him, better than those further back – and how much of this was us reacting less to his words than to him as a person, his joy and his faith speaking so strongly to his community that it bouyed us. (Well, not all of it; I cried. He dedicated the speech to erik, and he talked, from the heart, about how erik had inspired him; and while that was just a part of the speech, a single section in a larger hole, it meant a lot to me, and even though I knew it was coming, I could not hold back the tears. Tears which had lifted by the end of the speech, to be replaced with the joy that comes as a byproduct of catharsis, and the feeling that we were together, as a community, for the last time – but that we will carry the community with us, wherever we go, forever).
The formal graduation speech, delivered by California Supreme Court Justice Ming Chin, sucked. It had one great section, where he talked about how his parents had come here and how they had cherished the freedom they found as immigrants building a new life in a new land, and what that freedom meant; but mostly it was a speech about himself, and what he had done for the world (including bizarre things like his recent dinner with Leon Panetta and how great a guy Panetta is, and the flag he got from Panetta’s son in Afghanistan). It was laced with conservative politics, which irritated many of my classmates; but that wasn’t the problem in my mind: the problem was that he utterly failed to tie any of it back to the graduating class, to our hopes and aspirations for the future. And, tellingly, while he talked about how personal responsibility is the other side of liberty, he never laid a charge on us, or spelled out what he thinks our responsibility, as either citizens or lawyers, is, to help preserve and protect the American system which he loves so much. If his speech were a slashdot post, I would have rated it -1 OFFTOPIC. It was a terrible, terrible disappointment.
(I’ve heard it speculated that he’s retiring soon – the man is, after all, 68 – and that this speech was in part a valedictory; and, as a valedictory, the speech might have worked. But as a commencement address, it was just terrible.)
My guests and I hung out a bit after graduation and I mingled; then we hightailed it up the road to Troya, for a late dinner (graduation had coincided in time with the rapture-which-wasn’t, leaving us to spend much joking about how we’d clearly be safe because were in a church at the time of the coming rapture). Dinner was phenomenal; it’s certainly not a good place for everyday food, but it was very, very good, nonetheless.
Everyone except me went home (past people’s bedtime); I went to a friend’s party, where she and her family (and her sibling’s friends), and her undergraduate friends, were hanging out playing beer pong. I’d expected more classmates, and was somewhat bummed to not find them there, but hung out anyway; I didn’t want the evening to end, and – while it was awkward at first – hanging out and talking to new people energizes me now, unlike a decade or two ago.
I made it home at 4.
———
My mother in law, at my request, hosted a brunch today, and J, and our guests, and I, wandered down to her house around 10 (note the implied lack of sleep in these two numbers). Some other local friends came, as well as friends of my mother-in-law’s; we hung out until three or so. J and I came home, we cuddled and $redacted; I cooked a sausage curry for dinner. I tried to go to the gym, but gave up when my body told me that it was too tired and I should go f- myself; so I came home and wrote this, instead.
———
In the just over two weeks since my last book update, I’ve read two new books. (Yeah, that’s not very many. But: Finals. But: Final Paper. But: rereading old books because I can. The internet is really really great.
Embassytown arrived on my Kindle Tuesday, at an amazingly inconvenient time. (Must. Finish. Paper. Must. Hangout. With. Guests. Etc). I read some of it at lunch on tues and weds, some at the gym on weds and thurs, a little bit friday night as everyone else slept, and then finished it in a blast this afternoon.
It is one of the best science fiction novels i’ve ever read.
I’ve liked China Mieville for a long time. I thought Perdido Street Station and The Scar were incredible. King Rat and Un Lon Don were a lot of fun. But … the Iron Council bored me, I couldn’t finish The City & The City (because the MacGuffin was simply so unreassonable in my mind that I couldn’t get past it), and Kraken … I liked Kraken, but it was a bizarre, frenetic, borderline incomprehensible in-joke which got tiresome and overwhelming.
Embassytown, on the other hand, is simply brilliant. It compares favorably with PSS and The Scar; it may even be better than they are.
It starts off very slow; much like the first third of The Fellowship of the Ring serves to set up the characters and build the atmosphere of the universe, the (long) first act of Embassytown is about setting the atmosphere, infusing it into the story and letting it steep. It’s utterly required for the rest of the book to work, but it’s a bit slow at times, and there was a point where I thought the book was going nowhere … and then everything snapped into place, and the book went from being pleasant atmospheric world-building to being a gripping thrilling story of revolutionaries in a desparate struggle to prevent an incomprehensible end-of-the-world catastrophe, against one of the best illuminations of alienness I’ve ever seen. Yeah, there’s something in the MacGuffin, near the end, which stretches credulity almost to the breaking point … but it doesn’t matter, because the story is otherwise so compelling, and the almost-past-the-breaking-point-of-credulity concept fits so well in the context of the story, that I could easily forgive it. In the end, the total package was just fscking incredible. It’s literally been many, many years since I’ve been this blown away by a science fiction nvoel.
(I should note that almost all of the negative reviews on Amazon are from people who gave up before the shift from slow atmospheric worldbuilding to bizarre crisis tale. I get it; it was slow, and you have to either like this sort of thing or believe in the payoff to get past it. But … I also think it was necessary that it be this way; the payoff wouldn’t work without the time spent steeping in the atmosphere of the world).
(Yeah, I had a similarly strong reaction to the Half-Made World. But (a) that was fantasy. (b) this is better – because, oddly enough, it works as a commentary on the real world in a way that the Half-Made World does not. I don’t think this was intended as allegory. But it works beautifully as one, which makes it all the more impressive).
Uncommon Grounds is a history of the modern coffee industry. It’s primarily a history of the American consumer coffee industry, with an occasional tip of the hat to the European consumer; but you can’t discuss that really without discussing the history of the producer industry. It wasn’t as good as Fur, Fortune, and Empire, but it was good enough.
The book actually answered one long-standing question I’ve had: why did 70s and 80s mainstream coffee suck? (The synopsis answer: there was a tremendous coffee shortage in the late 40s and early 50s as a result of a disastrous freeze in Brazil, which supplied most American coffee; the roasters responded not by raising prices as the commodity coffee price rose, but by (a) substituting in lower quality beans, (b) mixing chaff into the grind, and (c) running advertising campaigns about how you could stretch your coffee further with their grounds). And it brought to my attention another interesting question: back in the nineteenth century, coffee retailers sold unroasted beans, which people roasted themselves; why the shift to preroasted? (This was apparently driven by a combination of the invention of vacuum sealed packages and the desire of distributors to build brand names using the roast as the hook for the brand identity). Sadly, it didn’t explain how the abomination of preground coffee became the general mass market alternative. :{
——
As I said above, I am no longer a student. I have earned my JD. I’ve spent four years feeling like I can’t commit everything I want to to work, and can’t commit everything I want to to school, and can’t commit to everything I want to with my husband, or my friends and family, or my health, or anything. There have been times where I’ve felt like I’m failing at everything, and otherwise I’ve mostly just felt like i’m getting by. And yet: I was promoted this spring. And, pending grades from my final quarter, I’m currently in the top 10% of my class (and just outside the top 5%), am graduating with honors, and am graduating with a better law school GPA than my undergraduate or high school GPAs.
I didn’t think I would be, but you know what: I’m proud of this. Doing it became so normal that after a while i ceased to think of it as anything out of the ordinary. And yet … the relief I felt when I was done puts the lie to that.
I’m done.
Yeah, I have to study for the bar. details. It’s just work; I don’t have the terror of it that my classmates do, and it’s something different, not tied to the law school schedule, more in my control, without responsibility to anyone except myself. And in the meantime. No more school for me. Perhaps forever; perhaps only for a handful of years. Either way, it feels great.
One year on
Dear Friend, as you know
Your flowers are withering
Your mother’s gone missing
Your leaves have drifted away
But the clouds are clearing up
And I’ve come reveling
Burning incandescently
Like a bastard on the burning sea
Tomorrow is an anniversary. It’s an anniversary I both wish to remember and wish not to remember.
rik was killed on a Wednesday. I found out on Friday. That afternoon, after I called my best friend to tell him the news, and after I concluded that, no, really, I just wasn’t going to be able to get any work done, and really couldn’t handle the thought of talking to my coworkers, I went up to the hills above San Mateo, to a county park that I go hiking in sometimes. I walked up, maybe a mile, to a solitary lookout with an overview of 280 and the reservoir beyond, and I sat there, watching the clouds and feeling the wind and wallowing in my grief, and listening to the song I quoted above. I had a stripped down version of the song, with a haunting sound which seemed appropriate to the occasion; and though the lyrics didn’t match, the binding of sound and feeling was so strong that, a year later, I cannot hear the song without being reminded of it.
He was the first friend I’d lost, really; I miss him, and the wound is still surprisingly fresh. I’d assumed that after a year it wouldn’t be, because I don’t feel it on a daily basis, and we weren’t so close that I notice him not being there outside of very specific situations. But … that assumption was evidently wrong.
I’ve been thinking about him a lot this week, and about the tenuousness of life, about how everything can turn on a dime and someone vital can just disappear in an instant with no warning. I believe that change is the only constant, but that doesn’t mean that I feel it, on a day to day basis; I am not that wise. And so the reminder is jarring, and fixating on it makes the moment more precious.
And in these days
When darkness falls early
And people rush home to the ones they love
You better take a fool’s advice
And take care of your own
One day they’re here
Next day they’re gone.
Take some time today, if you would, to reflect on those you have loved who are gone, and to hold close those you love who are still here, for they may be gone tomorrow. Take joy in what you have, while you have it.
The Last Final
There’s a surreal feeling about those words. Surreal because I’ve been doing this for four years, and now there’s just this test – in half an hour – and a paper – which is mostly finished even if I am planning to increase its length by 25% – which are left between me and the end. And, the paper notwithstanding, there’s something particularly final about the final final, as it were.
So I’m enhancing it, of course, by listening to Trentemoeller as I type this. Because trentemoeller are my new favorite band, and because there’s something about surreality which calls for more, for the feling to enhance and embrace and wrap itself around you with such intensity that it melds with the marrow of your bones.
Yesterday was rough. J and I snarled at each other yesterday morning on the way to a cancelled court appearance (for the red-light camera database failure ticket, which was successfully abolished courtesy of the local police); then, in the afternoon, I got into a snarling match with a coworker about resource shortages and machine allocations, exacerbated by the fact that he and I don’t communicate well with each other, and he’s one of those engineers who isn’t really completely socially adept … and I just broke. The up mood of the last three weeks shattered, and I was fuming through the 5pm meeting and my workout and into the evening, when I just crashed and wanted to crawl into a hole and hide.
Today has been better. Music in the morning helped, combined with focusing on water law and ignoring everything else; work was smoother, and I felt like i was accomplishing something instead of flailing, which always helps.
And now:
the last final.
maybe i’ll go back to school some day; maybe not. But for now …
a moment of calm before the testing, and a moment when the world feels very, very strange.
Blather and books
It’s been a good day, mostly – work was a bit rough, because I’m dealing with a new product on new hardware and my primary contact hordes information and is not helpful (and not interested, it seems, in camaraderie with his coworkers), leaving me feeling clueless and like an idiot. But this will pass … and since i’m currently a hired gun brought in to help some other team, I can put on my mercenary hat and, beyond not liking feeling like an idiot, not care.
My first final was tonight – election law. Functionally five questions – one dealing with preclearance under VRA section 5, one dealing with a challenge to at-large districts under VRA section 2, one dealing with the constitutionality of a measure to ban (local) campaign contributions by foreign corporations, one dealing with the single-subject rule for initiatives, and one dealing with the substantial compliance rule for minor technical errors in initiatives. Just over 5k words written in two hours (I finished early. so did half the class.)
I got the “polished draft” on my paper (finished in the immediate post-coachella no-sleep zombie mood; I think the last 5 pages of the 32 are crap, and I ran out of time for an entire section about how the ninth circuit handles the issue under discussion). The prof’s comments boiled down to: this was really well written, you could probably just paginate it and turn it back in as the final. (Thanks, I think. I hate it when I’m harsher than the reviewer is, because it makes me think the reviewer isn’t doing their job or being honest. Still, nice to get that kind of feedback from an authority figure, it will reduce my nervousness as I finalize it in a week).
I’m finding it unusually hard to care about politics and the news. (FFS. the news is still going on about OBL.) I had a moment of obsessing over election results Monday night, because obsessing over election results is an independently fun thing to do, and because I care about Canada more than I care about any country other than my own. But otherwise … I can make it through the newspaper, maybe. But I have no desire to listen to NPR (and am listening to the local corporate modern rock station instead, when not to headphones), and my reading has shifted almost entirely to fiction and not history.
It’s even so bad that I didn’t vote in an election this week. It was a minor election – a local, mail-ballot only election, to elect a new county supervisor; the old one had resigned to become the county clerk. The issue with this is that because the county is sandwiched between two large cities, the county really doesn’t have its own media market – no tv, radio, or newspapers really local to the county, so there’s very little coverage of local issues. To really understand county supervisor stuff, I need to do a lot of research on the net, and go to candidate debates, etc … which is hard to factor in while working and going to school, particularly hard in a month where i’m away for a week at a music festival, and somewhat pointless when i’m moving out of the county in four months and so really just don’t give a shit. So … I didn’t vote. I didn’t even bother to send in the unvoted ballot as an undervote (which would cause my voter record to show me as having voted). I just … couldn’t be bothered to care.
Which … is the first time in my adult life that’s been true. It feels wierd. It feels wrong, as if I’ve somehow betrayed myself. And yet. I really don’t give a shit who the new county supervisor is. It’s been more than 24 hours since the election, and I haven’t even checked the results.
—-Feb/Mar/Apr books
I haven’t been reading much new. I’ve been rereading a lot of stuff I’ve read before – the robots & empire series, some of the stephen king stuff i liked, the four lords of the diamond series (nowhere near as good as i remember), the first dozen anita blake novels (trash, but fun), the Foundation novels, Battle Circle …
But I’ve read some:
The Wise Man’s Fear, by Patrick Rothfuss
I loved the Name of the Wind, so it was only natural that as soon as I knew about the Wise Man’s Fear, I ordered it, and it arrived, a giant hardback, the day it was published. (I’d ordered it before I bought my kindle).
It was good. Perhaps not as good as the Name of the Wind, but it held up well, far better than many second books I could name. IT was entertaining, and kept my attention throughout.
And yet.
The underlying presumption of the story is that something *big* must have happened to Kvothe, to drive him into hiding and to set the great sense of despair which looms over him. And yet, at the end of book two, there is nothing that looks like it might be setting the stage for that. It’s not clear that there is room in book three to set that up … and worse yet, the structure of the series suggests that book three has to end with something which resolves the problem, which causes Kvothe to snap back into the world. Some realization which cures the despair. It’s even harder to see how there’s room for that.
All of which is to say: book 2 was good, but I’m really, really worried that book 3 won’t be able to pull off the conclusion in a way that makes the entire trilogy satisfying as a whole.
The Land of Painted Caves, by Jean M Auel
This book is, I think, the paradigm example of why I’m worried about Rothfuss. The Clan of the Cave Bear was awesome, the immediate two sequels were pretty good, and the last three books have all sucked. Painted Caves sucks for two completely unrelated reasons. For one thing, the writing quality has deteriorated, and it almost feels as though Auel is going through the motions rather than writing stories she finds compelling about characters she loves. For another … there’s an overpowering sense of ennui and disappointment; the earlier books suggested that Ayla has a grand destiny, which just doesn’t pan out in a way which justifies the fanfare. :{
Immortality, by Kevin Bohacz
I’m embarassed to admit that I remember virtually nothing about this book. I read it in a blaze (a day or two, if I recall correct – it was back in February). I’m pretty sure I enjoyed it, but it left no lasting impression, which can’t possibly be a good recommendation.
The Enterprise of Death, by Jesse Bullington
This was a highly entertaining light fantasy involving a lesbian necromancer placed under a horrible curse, and the friends she met along the way of trying to free herself from it. A deep, compelling, moving novel it wasn’t; it was, instead, a fantastic, amusing romp.
Hounded, by Kevin Hearne
Technically a May book – I just read it yesterday, based on a recommendation from Scalzi’s site. It was another fun romp; a fun romp involving an ancient druid living in Arizona. It was everything I wanted Norse Code to be and more.
(Plus, the picture on the front is cute.)
The Half-Made World, by Felix Gilman
The best novel I’ve read so far this year. It’s a travesty that it wasn’t nominated for a Hugo. (Particularly since Blackout/All Clear was). It’s a fascinating, fantastic mystery set in a peculiar world with well-drafted magical elements. Somewhat bizarrely given the title and the fact that the world in question is, well, half-made, it’s the worldbuilding which truly made the novel. (I’d tried Gilman before and disliked him – Thunderer seemed like a failed attempt to imitate China Mieville – but in this book, Gilman has really hit his stride, and the novel was simply awesome).
The Native Star, by MK Hobson
Steampunk is in this season. Steampunk zombies are particularly in this season. Dreadnought was the epitomy of this a year or two ago, although the sequel failed to hold my attention. The Native Star is a fine implementation of that this year – better than Dreadnought in my mind, because the world is more interesting and complex, the view of America more detailed, and the story more deeply layered. I loved this book enough that I ordered the sequel on spec, as soon as I knew it existed.
The Hidden Goddess, by MK Hobson
This wasn’t as good as The Native Star, but that’s not unusual. It took a bit to get into, to fall back into the rhythm of the story, and the complexity of the story seemed periodically overwhelming. And yet, by mid book, the story was engaging, and the ending was well thought-out and well executed.
The Lightning Thief, The Sea of Monsters, and The Last Olympian, by Rick Riordan
These were entertaining light (juvenile) fantasy. The first book was particularly good, and as normal the second and fifth were less compelling (books 3 and 4 were unreadable due to formatting issues).
Breakthrough! How the 10 Greatest Discoveries in Medicine Saved Millions, by Jon Queijo
Meh. The stories were interesting pop history-of-science. But the book was .. how shall I say it? A combination of too light, with some nasty internal contradictions, and it left me with a general sense of wondering how well sourced it was. Not a good trait in a history book. But what can I expect, really, for free kindle books?
I haven’t finished a single history book in this time (other than Breakthrough); I haven’t even really gotten more than a fifth of the way through one. History requires too much concentration for what I have to spare right now.
It’s the end of the world as I know it ….
Don’t be a horse race, be a marathon.
Law school – postsecondary school in general, probably, but more advanced education more so than undergraduate (for a variety of reasons) – is a slog. The saying popular in law circles is “in the first year they scare you to death, in the second year they work you to death, and in the third year they bore you to death”; and while that’s an exaggeration, there’s a nugget of truth to it. Certainly the excitement of the first year – doing something new, grapplign with complex thought problems in new ways, learning how to extract the law out of the law – becomes old hat, and the last semester or two feels like treading water, doing the same thing over and over again in a new context, like painting some cubist painting over and over again with one line slightly out of position … but you can’t let slack off because then finals, and bad grades, fall on you like a ton of feathers. (a ton of feathers being just as heavy, and therefore hurting just as much, as a ton of recycled glasS). It’s worse if you’re a part time student, because it’s longer: you work all day, you sit in class and pretend to pay attention all night, you scramble to get your work done all weekend. Occasionally you get a week off here or there, and things slow down a bit around finals (think about that, if you would), but it just goes on and on and …
And then one day you look up and you can say: holy shit. I just had my last class of law school.
————————
It’s a strange feeling. I have a feeling of accomplishment, but it’s muted – I have two finals to take and a paper to revise and extend and a bar exam to study for, so on some level i’m not done, even though i’m done with classes.
On another level, i’m melancholy (despite the generral good mood from last week continuing and a friendly smile alighting on my face at most times): part of being done is saying goodbye to friends, and near-friends, and want-to-be-friends with whom I have walked in tandem through this valley of toil, most of whom I will never get to know as well ass I would have wanted, and most of whom I will never get to see again. (And, though I can joke about it now, I miss erik, and this is a time when the loss feels particularly poignant).
And there’s a feeling that this is utterly bizarre: I’ve been doing this for four years. How can it be done? What will I do with my time now? (I know, I know. see: finals, bar exam. etc. but yet.)
Overall, I think I feel fine, I think I feel better than fine: the world is a beautiful place, and it’s a brilliant day, i’m in a massively entertaining and somewhat fun situation at work, i’m on the precipice of the largest change in my life since I was 17, and it’s exciting.
And the first shoe one of the centipede’s shoes just dropped.
And it’s very, very strange, and more than a little bit scary.
“Every new day is a gift, it’s a song of redemption”
It helps that i’m still mostly in the festival mood; that I can hear those lyrics and hear them both as truth and as an aspiration for the way I want to view the world, rather than as the silly natterings of a tripping hippie. It heightens the surreality and dampens the accomplishment, but also buffers the fear and the melancholy. It reminds me that we are all standing on the edge of an eternal void, teeming with possibilities, and that we choose to hide that from ourselves by shoving it under the cloak of day-to-day-routine, and that our reliance on that routine is a victory of self-delusion.
It’s a strange thing, in a way: there was something I wanted from law school which I know I did not get, and I do not know if I wanted what I did get. There’s something unfulfilled which I’m still yearning for, and that’s probably a big part of why I’m unsettled today. And yet … I think, perhaps, that yearning is intrinsic in my nature, and it will never be fulfilled, and that it need not be for me to be happy; and that knowledge is itself surreal and unsettling.
And so I stand in front of the gate at the end of the valley and close it behind me, and look out across the plain at the peaks in the distance and wonder: what is there? What do I want to be there? And how do these paths that lie before me, of which I know naught but by reputation, how do they lead me there? How can I direct them to take me to that unnamed place I wish to be, without becoming so focused in the destination that I lose the joy of the journey?
I’m rambling. But, then again, isn’t it time?
“Lactantius goes on to argue that to use force to impose religious belief pollutes the very nature of religion. God values devotion, faith and love, and an act of force contradicts exactly what He most requires; in fact, it diminishes the deity in whose name persecution is effected.”
–(A.D. 381: Heretics, Pagans, and the Christian State by Charles Freeman)
This is a point I wish more would pay attention to – not just in the Christian world. Even if you can force another to believe as you wish, the act of doing so destroys the value in the belief: belief held involuntarily, belief to which one is forced to submit, is a hollow thing, devoid of spirit and love.
Even worse is fake belief, the pretense to the outside world that one believes while one does, in fact, not. That is, perhaps, one of the greatest of modern afflictions.

Picture taken outside the city walls of Segovia, I believe on the west side, in June of 1998.
Jury Duty
I was talking in the hallway of the county courthouse, a few weeks ago when I began this diary, with a fellow potential juror: a talkative and excitable wiry older man in a baseball cap, a man who had moved here from Thailand and who extolled at length the flaws in the Thai legal system, where a single man’s decision can mean the difference between life and death, and how much better our system is, because many people have to look at it together, and bring their own experiences and lives together, to think about the man and his fate. (He kept trying to talk about the case, and I kept trying to lead him back to safe topics).
I believe in the jury system, especially by comparison with the alternatives: the state should not have the power to punish a man on its own whim, on the judgment of someone who draws his paycheck from the state. It’s not perfect; jurys are flawed, because they consist of humans, and humans are flawed; but better the flaws of a dozen sitting in judgment than the flaws of one.
Jury duty is, in my mind, something of a sacred duty: an obligation we have to one another, to accept the call when issued, and to listen with open mind, and hear the evidence from both sides, and hold the prosecution to their duty. I have never, would never try to get out of jury duty; I get irritated at those who do. Sure, it’s an interruption, a diversion from your normal life; a pull away from what you want to do into what you have to do, paid poorly if at all. I understand that missing work can be a financial hardship, but absent a real hardship, I think trying to get out of jury duty is a betrayal of a fundamental duty of citizenship.
What I haven’t understood, at least not emotionally, is that service on some juries carries with it a cost beyond the cost of time and money involved; some cases inflict a psychic, emotional cost on the jurors hearing the case: that even listening to the evidence and trying to judge it honestly and dispassionately hurts, and strikes the jurors deep in their souls.
I was sworn in as an alternate juror on November 18 in the case of a man who was charged with fourteeen counts of conducting molesting three minors under the age of 14 over a period of sixteen years.
WARNING: This diary is explicit. This diary is not safe for work. You have been warned.
As you might expect, it’s difficult to empanel such a jury. I was brought in on Wednesday morning, along with about 150 other jurors; we were sent up to the courtroom in batches of 30. Once there, we were told the nature of the charges, and the expected length of the trial, and told that if we should apply for an exemption if we needed one because (a) our employer wouldn’t pay and we’d suffer a financial hardship, or (b) it would conflict with some prepaid nonrefundable vacation plans, or (c) the nature of the charges, and our personal experiences, were such that we could not possibly provide a fair trial; otherwise, we were free to go, returning at 1.30 for the actual voir dire. I did not apply for an exemption; my vacation plans don’t involve leaving town (unusually for me and thanksgiving), and while I wasn’t sure my employer would pay for this long a trial, even if they didn’t, I would suffer no real financial hardship. (I didn’t even think about the potential that I’d have a hard time providing a fair trial). Only four people from my group of 30 refrained from applying for an exemption.
I found out later this had gone on all day Tuesday, as well.
So I came back at 1.30 for voir dire itself.
Voir dire is a peculiar American legal custom. In California – it varies from state to state – it begins with the judge asking questions of each potential juror; then, after a bit, he turns it over to the attorneys. The judge’s questions were basically straightforward: how long have you lived here, what do you do, what does your wife do, what do your children (if grown) do. These questions were designed to weed out people who would be obviously unfit to serve on the jury: anyone who said they worked in child abuse counseling, for example, could get kicked off the jury immediately. (None did). Several people were kicked off at this phase for failure to understand enough English to be able to answer the questions, however. One or two jurors had to provide more detailed explanations to the judge, who didn’t seem to understand their explanation of what they did (“i’m a quality engineer”, for example, is incomprehensible jargon to people outside of the industry); he did not, however, ask for more explanation from the person who claimed to be a “stationary engineer”, leaving me in the dark about what such a job entails.
The prosecutor – a short, energetic Chinese-American woman – asked questions first. She was concerned about such things as: do you accept the idea that people’s memories change and that, just because when you retell a story the details may be different, the core of the story remains the same and the difference in details doesn’t mean the core is untrue; and, do you understand that children sometimes don’t come forward with things when they’re scared; and, just because someone reacted to events differently than you would have doesn’t mean they are lying about them; and, in cases like this, there is usually no external physical evidence, and under the law you can convict if you believe the testimony of one witness even without external corroborating evidence, are you ok with that?
Some people weren’t.
She was also very concerned with whether or not people had preconceived notions of what a pedophile looks like: basically, can you accept that someone who goes to church and appears to all and sundry to be a good guy, actually has deep dark evil secrets? This prompted one potential juror to remark that, well, Ted Bundy had been a good looking guy, and we all know what he was really like.
The defense – a tall, bearded man with glasses he kept perched at the end of his nose, creating the unsettling effect that he was peering down through them, surveying the room in judgment, asked less focused questions. He wanted to be sure to confine the principle that memories can change, drawing limits around it, making it clear that if the core changed, the story was probably untrue. He asked people intermittently about their educational backgrounds. He kept asking people if they understood the concept of physical affection, that parents would hug their kids, or give them a pat on the buttocks, or whatever, unprompted, and that this was normal and healthy behavior.
Several people were kicked off the jury for, in essence, having too little experience with kids. One was kicked off because she has an ongoing social relationship with the prosecutor. One was kicked off because the defense lawyer was a lawyer in a trial in which she had previously been a juror. One was kicked off because, in addition to being an attorney, he was an ex-police-officer who had arrested someone at the scene of a sexual assault, and worked for a while in the DA’s office, and was involved in several charities who targeted aid at sexual assault victims. (He was clearly, clearly, clearly trying to get thrown off the jury). One woman refused to say anything other than she thought that people shouldn’t molest children, which drew an admonition from the judge (along the lines of, look, everyone thinks that, the question is can you be fair and impartial in judging whether or not that happened?).
In the absolute best moment of voir dire, a not-very-bright man who works as a custodian in a public elementary school was asked if he could judge fairly; he said he didn’t think he could, and when asked, he talked passionately and at length about how his job is in part to take care of and protect kids, and he didn’t think he could set that aside. OK, fair enough: excused. The judge calls up the next juror into the box, asks him what he does: he’s a custodian in a public school ….
The jury pool laughed raucously.
Eventually, the jury was selected (it was mid-morning Thursday by now), and we filtered people in to be alternates. Four were called up (there were five potential alternates, but one had already been called). I was alternate #2. The judge didn’t understand what my husband does (he’s an administrator for an online high school; this was a new concept for him). The prosecutor wasn’t sure I had enough experience with kids (well, I have a neice and nephew, and my inlaws adopted a little girl who is currently a sophomore in high school); she was sufficiently satisfied with that answer. Of the five, three were stricken; three more were called up, one of those was stricken, and then the lawyers were happy.
An alternate sits and listens to all of the testimony, and analyzes it and thinks about it as if they were a juror; but they don’t deliberate. They are on call to replace one of the jurors if the juror gets sick, or injured, or commits flagrant misconduct, or otherwise becomes unavailable.
I was glad, after the first day of testimony, that I would most likely not be called upon to decide the case.
—————-
After a jury is sworn, there are opening arguments: the attorneys present an outline of their case. It’s a bit of a game, really, as the attorneys try to provide the jurors with a built-in frame, an easy story to attach the evidence to so that they can organize it. The danger, of course, is that people filter out evidence which doesn’t match with their preconceived notions, meaning that an effective opening argument can cause a jury to not pay attention to things which don’t fit with the story they’ve already adopted. In some ways, this is the goal of each attorney, although they will of course deny it.
The defense had, during jury selection, hammered on the notion that it’s perfectly normal for families to be affectionate and physical towards one another, and that there’s nothing wrong with a grandfather giving his granddaughter a hug, or a pat on the buttocks, or what have you.
The prosecution made it very clear that this isn’t what we were talking about. The state’s allegations were that he had (a) climbed in bed with a granddaughter, reached under her panties, stroked and rubbed her vagina, and sticked his fingers inside it; (b) climbed in bed with another granddaughter, touched her stomach on the skin, and only been prevented from sexually molesting her because she threatened to scream; (c) repeatedly over the course of years, sexually molested his step-daughter, including one event which involved him rubbing his penis on her and ejaculating on her “bloomers”.
The story was this:
In 2008, “Jamalet” (the daughter’s nickname, I don’t remember her actual name) spent weekends with her mother’s-husband’s-stepfather and his wife (mother is no longer married to the same man she was then) while mom worked. (Don’t know where mom’s husband was, it was never addressed). One night, her grandfather came in while she was in bed, supposed to be sleeping, and molested her. A week later, when it was time for her to go back, she told her mom, who took her to talk to the police. After she talked to the police, but before being told any details, her sister Leslie came forward with her story that once grandpa had climbed in bed with her, put his hand on her stomach and was moving it towards her breasts when she told him she’d scream if he didn’t stop, at which point he left. He went to El Salvador for surgery (it’s cheaper to have your gall bladder removed there, apparently), then came back; as the police were trying to contact him, the girls’ aunt Ana, his stepdaughter, came forward with her story: stepdad had repeatedly molested her for years when she was a kid, but she’d been suppressing the memories. None of them have any motive or reason to make this up.
The defense’s opening argument was somewhat disjointed and hard to follow; the lawyer was making a great show of being a simple man not really understanding what was going on (I think the idea here was that the defendant is a simple, uneducated man, and he was trying to make the jury empathize with the defendant – I’m not sure this was working. It certainly wasn’t working for me). From what I could gather, his argument was: all of this testimony is tainted and potentially inaccurate so it should be thrown out.
—————-
The first witness called was Jamalet. She was a small, diminutive teenager, timid and afraid; she could barely speak loud enough for me to hear her, and she leaned back in her chair rather than leaning forward into the microphone. (This kind of posture encouraged me to believe in her claims; often, that kind of timidity is associated with having been hurt, especially when in the presence of the person who hurt you. And yet, it also seems to be culturally common of hispanic girls; is her behavior the result of an emotional scar, or is it the result of normal cultural conditioning?).
The prosecuter started out with simple questions about her interests, what she likes to do, how she does in school; questions designed to relax her and make her feel comfort. Then she (the prosecutor) moved into more substantive questions, and the story which emerged was basically something along these lines: that weekend, she had been staying over at her grandparents’ with a cousin. For reasons of space (and because she and her male cousin didn’t want to share a bed), her grandparents stayed in the guest bedroom, while she slept in her grandparents’ bed and her cousin slept on an air mattress in the same bed. (The prosecutor had an exhibit set up which showed the layout of the room, something I found unhelpful). They stayed up until around 11 watching tv; her cousin, Angel, fell asleep first. She turned the TV off at 11, and after that, her grandfather came in. He climbed in bed with her; she could feel his breath on her body. He reached around (she was on her side, facing away from the door), and touched her – first on her leg, then up further, into her “private parts”. This led to a difficult dance where the prosecutor tried to avoid asking leading questions while getting specifics out of a girl who was reticent to talk; eventually it came out that her grandfather had put a finger inside the lips of her vagina. He did this for a while, then he left, then he came back and did it again. He did it at least twice, but maybe as many as five times; Jamalet can’t remember how many. After he left, she lay in bed trying to fall asleep, but it took a long time.
She didn’t review any tapes or transcripts or otherwise refresh her memory before testifying, and nobody told her what to say.
On cross examination, the defense kept asking about things which seemed irrelevant: did she remember telling her grandfather she was afraid of the bogeyman? did she remember him telling her to go to bed before her grandmother woke up? did she remember her grandfather coming into the room and watching tv for a while? did she remember playing a game with her cousin before the fell asleep?
She didn’t remember any of these things.
She also didn’t remember if grandpa’s hand went under the bottom of her underwear or over the top.
[I surmised, correctly as it turns out, that the issue here is that when she gave her statement to the police two years ago, she did remember these things. But: that was ten days after the incident, not two and a half years later; it was in a safe space, not in a courtroom.]
One thing which did bother me: she said she could see the clock from her bed, but she didn’t remember what time her grandfather left. This is a small thing, probably irrelevant … but if it had been me, and I’d lay in bed unable to fall asleep, and could see the clock, I would have fixated on it. But that’s me.
—————
The second witness was Jamalet’s sister Leslie. Her story was pretty simple: grandfather came in, lay in bed with her under the covers, put his hand on her stomach under her pajamas, was moving it towards her breasts; she told him that if he didn’t stop she would scream; he left; she locked the door.
She didn’t review any tapes or transcripts or otherwise refresh her memory before testifying, and nobody told her what to say.
The defense didn’t spend much time cross-examining her, and I don’t remember any of it.
After the second witness, we went home, and were ordered back on Monday.
—————
Monday, we heard from Jamalet and Leslie’s mom. Leslie’s mom spoke through an interpreter; she is english non-functional.
One of the insinuations from the defense attorney had been that somehow Jamalet’s testimony was tainted. The theory (as moroe specificlaly elucidated later in the trial) is that children in such situations have a tendency to answer questions the way they think adults want them to answer; that they are suggestable. Accordingly, questions regarding allegations of child abuse have to be posed in a certain way: as open-ended questions, rather than leading questions; as questions which suggest no preference, rather than (say) a list of alternatives where the presence on the list might give away the preferred answer. Thus, “where did he touch you”, rather than “did he touch you in your private parts”, etc. Because Jamalet complained to her mom on a Saturday and she wasn’t interviewed by the police until the following Monday, maybe her mom asked her questions which suggested the answerr, thereby rendering her testimony unreliable.
[This is a legitimate issue. On the other hand, taken literally and to extremes, the result is to erect a really high bar to convicting child molesters based on the testimony of children: because most children are going to turn in the first instance to people they trust who may not have been trained in asking questions the right way, and who may not know not to ask questions ... and the idea that we should always discount or dismiss such testimony is a step too far].
Jamalet and Leslie’s told us that she hadn’t asked Jamalet questions at all.
During the week after the incident, she said, Jamalet had been morose and withdrawn and unhappy, but she didn’t know why.
When Jamalet said she didn’t want to go to grandpa’s house, and explained why, her mom said, she called grandpa to yell at him, and then had her husband call the police.
I have a hard time believing she didn’t ask questions: isn’t that the natural reaction? And yet … maybe in her world the natural reaction is to call the police and let them deal with it. Maybe it’s easier not to ask, not to know.
The cross-examination of Jamalet’s mother was simple; the defense attorney wanted her to say she’d asked questions, but she insisted she hadn’t, and after that, there was really nowhere for him to go.
—————-
Next up: a social worker, of sorts.
Police interviews of children who allege child molestation, at least in my county, are not conducted in the police station. They’re conducted in what is believed to be a safe place: a children’s center at a local hospital, with toys and crayons and a child-inviting, colorful atmosphere. This relaxes children, it is believed, and makes the entire process work better. Interviews in this space also involve physical examinations; the woman testifying conducted the physical exam.
The physical exam showed no physical signs of penetration – no scar tissue, no scratches, no breaking of the hymen.
This does not mean there was no abuse; there have been cases of abuse in the past which showed no physical signs.
It doesn’t even mean no penetration; slight penetration could be consistent with these results.
[Why is she a witness at all? My guess is because if she hadn't testified, the jury would have wondered about it. But she didn't really say anything helpful.]
Cross-examination reiterated that there was no evidence of penetration.
—————
Then, the worst testimony of the entire trial: Ana.
Ana is a mid-twenties Latino woman, also with long hair, and a gigantic earring which obscured the view of her face. She’s married. She’s a stay-at-home mom. Her first kid, she had when she was fifteen, with some boy who is no longer in her life; she has children with her husband.
Ana had an extremely difficult time testifying. She broke down when identifying the defendant. She broke down when asked details about her past.
She doesn’t remember most of it; she intentionally suppressed it.
But she remembers, when she was a child, living with her stepfather whom she thought was her father, that things happened. For a while, when she was really young and wanted to sleep in bed with mom, she had to stop doing that, because stepdad would touch her. As she got older, she doesn’t remember specifics, but she remembers she had to fight him off sometimes. One time, she remembers him pinning her down, rubbing his penis on her, ejaculating on her panties (she remembers the smell, she didn’t know what it was, but she recognized it the first time she had sex, and she remembers being afraid that her mom would smell it and punish her). She remembers him feeling her up in the bathroom when she was disrobing to shower.
As a young child, when they lived in San Francisco, she slept in the same room as her mom and stepdad. When she was older, she had her own room, but she remembers it continuing.
How often did this happen?
At least once a month.
Once, when she was fourteen, she came home drunk. She doesn’t remember what happened, she’s been told by others what happened … the lawyers dance around the defense’s objection: this is hearsay, she’s repeating what she was told. We get around this: she had a conversation the day after she had come home drunk and said something she doesn’t remember which caused her mom to want to talk to her. She told her mom what was happening.
Her mom did nothing.
She’s never told anyone else. She told her first boyfriend a little, and her husband, but no details.
how did she feel when she heard about Jamilet going to the police? Ana broke down at this point: she felt terrible. If only she’d come forward sooner, it might never have happened.
Her voice was so filled with pain at that moment that I could barely stifle my tears. (I can barely stifle them now, writing this).
I believed her testimony. That is to say, I believed that she believed it. But … memory is a surprisingly malleable thing; that she believes it happened doesn’t mean it happened. Particularly since she doesn’t have fully functional, coherent memories.
The defense lawyer harped on this. Does she remember saying that her life is like something she read in a book, not something she experienced? Does she remember talking about having dreams? Might these be nothing more than her dreams, not real events?
He also honed in on something else: Ana got pregnant with a boyfriend she wasn’t supposed to be seeing, and was thrown out of the house. Before she got drunk and told her mom about the abuse, her stepdad came home and found her in bed with the boyfriend, and kicked the boyfriend out of the house and told her mom, and this got her in all sorts of trouble.
Perhaps she was just making it up to get back at stepdad?
Redirect examination (basically, the prosecution gets another chance after cross-examination, and then the defense gets another after that): even though you didn’t remember, and didn’t tell anyone, what did you tell the girls when you heard they were staying with their grandfather?
Always lock the door.
————–
Next up: the detective.
The actual interview of the detective was very short, and seemed directed mostly at providing the basis for the introduction of a video: the video of the interrogation of the defendant.
You know what they tell you about how you shouldn’t talk to the police, ever? That if you’re arrested you should lawyer up and stay quiet? This video is proof of that.
For one thing: while ordinarily nobody can testify about something someone else told them (that’s hearsay), anyone can testify about something a defendant told them (that’s considered a party admission, and so is admissible).
For another thing, interrogations are now regularly videotaped. That’s a good thing in some ways (as it cuts down on police brutality), but it’s a bad thing in other ways … in that it means that when you go to trial, the jurors get to see exactly what went down.
The tape opens up with the defendant at a table, one arm chained to a wall. The detective is across the table; there’s a third man, a spanish language interpreter. We have transcripts, still warm, just off the printer, in both languages.
The defendant is mirandized.
He’s asked to sign something saying he’s been mirandized; he gets them to unchain his arm for that, and he remains unchained.
The detective’s tone is conversational, friendly. I’m here to help you. I understand. Sometimes things happen. We’re all men here, we understand, we can help, you just have to tell us what happened.
The defendant denies it.
The detective continues.
The defendant concedes: he might have touched his granddaughter.
Yeah, that’s what she told us. Press for more detail.
Near her vagina. But he knew it was wrong, so he stopped.
The detective lies to him: medical knowledge allows us to tell when she’s been penetrated. we have evidence she’s been penetrated.
He denies it. Then … he admits it. “I stuck in”, he says in English.
Press for more detail. He basically admits to having put his finger in Jamilet’s vagina.
The subject switches to Leslie; he might have touched her.
Then the detective brings up Ana. The defendant responds nervously, stammering. He denies everything.
Then he tells this bizarre story, about how Ana, when she was a child, would come on to him. She would come up to him and rub her vagina on him, and one time when she did this, he knew it was wrong, but he came in his pants.
[Note: this story, if true, is in itself admission of a crime.]
The interview took about an hour. These were the highlights; a lot of it involved him denying, then changing his story, progressively releasing more details. Except: he never touched Ana, he insisted; all the touching was initiated by her.
——————
We had more videos.
This wasn’t explained, but I know enough about the evidence code to explain it: the defense wanted to use parts of the videos of the interviews of the girls to impeach the testimony of the girls by showing up where things were different. Doing that allows the prosecution to bring in the entire video. Rather than having the defense just use the parts it wanted and then have the prosecution, in its rebuttal case, present the entire thing, the lawyers agreed to present the tapes in their entirety, as joint evidence submissions, during the prosecution’s case.
First: Jamilet.
The story she told in the center was a bit different than what she told on the stand. She and her cousin (Angel) were in the room playing, when they were supposed to be asleep. They played with a flashlight, she flung her pony tail tie at him and he flung it back. It was noisy; eventually her grandfather came in and told them to go to sleep before their grandmother woke up. He sat on the bed for a while and watched soccer. After that, he touched her hole. He got up and left, and came back, and touched her hole again. This happened a couple of times, but she doesn’t remember how many.
The troubling part of this was that the detective, despite being a theoretical expert, didn’t hold to the line of never asking leading questions: at one point (after she’d already said he’d touched her hole), he asked her if her grandfather had put his finger in her hole or if he’d just touched it. She answered that he’d put it in; but … if we’re worried about suggesting the answers, isn’t this a problem? And, given that the police officer has lots of expert training in doing this (he said so, when being questioned), shouldn’t he have known better?
—————–
Then we had Ana’s video. (We didn’t get Leslie’s video). She was interviewed in the same interrogation room where the defendant was interviewed (or so it seemed from the tape). The detective had the same friendly, conversational tone he used with Jamilet and with the defendant. Ana remembered no specifics; she remembered having to fight her father off, she wasn’t sure but she thought she remembered he had jacked off on her; she remembered the smell on her panties. She didn’t have any real memories, just moment memories. She felt that her life was like something she had read, not something she had experienced, and she had tried so hard to forget it all.
———————————————
The next witness, the last prosecution witness: Ana’s mom.
Ana’s mom remembers the night in question, when her daughter came home drunk.
Afterwards, she told her husband to stop touching Ana.
[ The mind boggles. Unless she's lying now, she believed Ana. Yet she did nothing other than tell him to stop it. And she's still married to him today, even though she's testifying as a prosecution witness.]
(For me, this was the single most important piece of testimony in the entire case. Yeah, it’s possible she’s lying, but the burden is on the defense to demonstrate that – give me a motive, at the very least. something i can hang the hat of doubt on. otherwise: she’s just corroborated (a) that ana said something more than a decade ago and so this is clearly not all a recent fabrication, and (b) what Ana said, all those years ago, was cedible enough that she believed it.)
The prosecution rested.
———————————————
The defense called the defendant. He testified in Spanish.
He denied everything. He loved his family. He was very affectionate with them. But he never touched anyone in the way they were saying. He remembered Ana getting in trouble for having sex with a boy, and moving out when she was fifteen.
During the interview, he was scared. He didn’t understand what was going on. He was just trying to tell them what they wanted to hear so they’d let him go.
He never touched them.
On cross, the prosecutor employed an interesting technique, directed not at getting the defendant to admit something – he clearly wasn’t going to – but at reminding the jury of what they already heard. “Did you hear [witness X] say [y]?”
“I never touched her.”
That wasn’t the question. Did you hear …
“I never touched her.”
Your honor, please direct the witness to answer the question.
[Admonition from the judge]
Did you hear?
Yes.
Repeat.
The defense rested; we were sent home for the six day thanksgiving holiday (the court prefers not to try to hold jury trials on the weds + mon around thanksgiving weekend, because it turns out to be a pain in the ass) and instructed to come back on tuesday for closing arguments and jury instructions.
Happy Thanksgiving.
——————————————-
We reassembled Tuesday morning, the 30th of December.
The arguments were about what you would expect.
In the prosecution’s view, this case is about a predator. All of the girls are credible; what the defendant said while he was being interrogated is credible. But even if we don’t believe his admissions in the interrogation room, if we throw them out, we have enough: we have the testimony of three girls, given independently without talking to each other. Yes, the details they gave to the police two years ago and the details they give now are different; but they’re different in unimportant, unessential ways. The core details remain the same. Hell, Ana remembers more now than she did two years ago. (Hell is my emphatic, not the prosecutor’s; she would never say such a word to a jury). We have the testimony of both moms. There’s no reason to believe any of them are making this up.
The prosecutor took the time to explain the technicalities of the eight charges and what the prosecution had to prove. Three of the charges required proof of (a) penetration (b) of a child under the age of 10 (c) by someone over the age of 18. (These refer to Jamilet). Three required proof of (a) touching (b) with sexual intent (c) a child under the age of 14 (these refer to the same acts; the same act can constitute multiple crimes). One more referred to (a) touching (b) with sexual intent (c) a child under the age of 14 (Leslie); while the eighth referred to (a) significant sexual acts (defined as oral copulation, masturbation, or penetration) of (b) a child under the age of 14 (c) by someone who lived with them (d) on more than two occasions (e) spread out over more than three months (referring to Ana).
Actual arousal is not required.
Motive is not required.
A reason for picking these girls and not some other girls, is not required.
In the defense’s view, these girls all believe what they’re saying, but they’re mistaken. Jamilet’s memory was influenced by her mother’s bad questioning technique – and maybe she dreamed it, anyway, and woke up and couldn’t tell that it was a dream; the event as described by Leslie wasn’t even a crime, who knows what it was – and besides, she imagined it after she heard about Jamilet; the events involving Ana were things she conjured out of dreams and, to the extent they weren’t, they were things she’d made up to get back at her grandfather for getting her punished for sleeping with her boyfriend.
(The inherent contradiction in the last two was not commented upon).
But, even if you believe Jamilet about the touching, there’s no evidence of penetration, and the report that was entered into evidence (but not discussed) by the attending nurse indicated that in her professional judgment, what was reported during the interview with the detective was an event that didn’t involve penetration, so at the very least, we should acquit on the penetration charges.
[For much of the trial, I thought the defense attorney's body language and posture suggested he believed his client to be guilty; this line of closing argument really suggested it: he's left trying to argue the jury down to the lesser of two offenses.]
I don’t remember the prosecution’s rebuttal closing argument (yes, they get one. no, the defense doesn’t. yes, it’s unfair). I remember being impressed by it, but the details escape me … other than the sarcastic observation that, really, nine year olds don’t dream about being sexually molested by their grandparents unless something triggered the dream.
The jury went off to deliberate; the alternates were sent home. We would be called when a verdict was reached.
———————————-
I didn’t get to deliberate in this case; I don’t know what went on in the deliberation room. But I have my suspicions.
You’re told, when you are a juror, not to form an opinion about the case before deliberations. This is ridiculous. It’s impossible not to. All you can ask is that that opinion remain tentative until everything is in and you have a chance to meet and confer.
There were a couple difficult issues in this case.
The biggest one has to do with memory. Ana only has “moment memories”; she doesn’t remember anything other than flashes, single images stripped of their context. I firmly believe her memory is accurate; the things she remembers actually happened to her. I believe this because – while i was not abused as a child – I have a similar set of moment memories: the entire time I lived in San Antonio, except for the hours I spent at my grandmother’s house, are a dark blur, punctuated by episodic memories of angry, violent conflict between my mother and my stepfather. They fought, as far as I can remember, constantly; their fighting was loud and probably violent (it didn’t happen in front of me, of course, but I could hear it from the next room over); I was terrified, and did everything I could to forget about it, once I was no longer in the environment … meaning that I can only remember moments, images of single moments frozen in a sea of darkness. (My memory of the years before that, when I was 5-6 living in New Jersey, are far stronger and more vivid). So … I understand from personal experience how memories like this work; I believe her.
And yet … I don’t think my memories are enough to convict someone. They shouldn’t be; there’s far too much reasonable doubt.
In Ana’s case, though, this is balanced by (a) her mother’s memory, of events when she was an adult, of Ana talking about it as a child … and of telling her husband to stop it; and (b) her stepfather’s bizarre not-quite-confession alleging that Ana came on to him and rubbed herself against him until he came. I mean, really: this just isn’t credible. It’s a clear and transparent attempt to get out of it, to minimize what he’d done and shift blame on to someone else.
But … is that enough to overcome reasonable doubt? I’m convinced that it’s true, but … maybe it’s not? It’s not likely. It’s not credible. It’s possible, though.
That said … even if it is enough to overcome reasonable doubt, there remained a problem with this count: California Penal Code 288.5(a) requires proof of three or more acts.
How many times did this happen? It’s not clear. Ana said at least once a month, but frequency is the point where her memory is the least reliable, and she didn’t remember that level of frequency when she was interviewed at the police station.
And yet … given that it happened at all, given that her mom believed her when she said it happened, given that the defendant’s bizarre not-admission points to it happening, how likely is it that it didn’t happen at least three times?
I would have entered deliberations as a weak vote to convict on that count. I’m certain he’s guilty. But I suspect I could be talked into reasonable doubt.
—————————————–
I had the hardest time with the count involving Leslie. Her story is: he came in, lay down on the bed, put his hand on her stomach. The defendant is charged with lewd and lascivious conduct on a minor under the age of 14, which requires, among other things, proof of sexual intent. Intent is almost always inferred from circumstancial evidence rather than demonstrated from direct evidence – how do you demonstrate intent? It’s basically not doable.
I can’t infer intent in this case.
I mean: laying down next to a sleeping child, putting a hand on their stomach? This could be giving them a hug. (It wasn’t. I’m certain it wasn’t. But … based on what Leslie said … it could have been, and reasonable doubt goes to the defendant). I would have entered the jury room a firm vote to acquit on this count.
—————————————-
The remaining six charges all stem from the touching of Jamilet. She wasn’t sure how many times he touched her; the prosecution settled on three to charge. Each individual touching is charged twice: once for penetration of a child under the age of 10 by an adult (which doesn’t require sexual intent but does require penetration), once for lewd and lascivious acts upon a minor under the age of 14 (which does require intent but doesn’t require penetration).
I would have entered deliberations as a firm vote to convict on two of the three lewd and lascivious conduct counts. There isn’t a doubt in my mind that he touched her sexually.
The defense wanted me to focus doubts on the following:
* she could have been confused into making stuff up by her mom’s questioning
* she could have dreamed it or otherwise made it up
* her story has changed since she gave it to the police two years ago
none of these worked for me.
yeah, her story changed. not in any way which mattered – just in irrelevant details. I was rear-ended two months ago; I can’t remember the kind of car the dude who rear-ended me was driving. I’m supposed to expect an eleven-year old to remember who watched tv with her on a certain night two years ago? This is ridiculous.
yeah, she could have dreamed it. but: nine year old children don’t have this particular dream without some causal factor. If you want me to believe that as a reasonable explanation, you’ve got to give me the causal factor.
yeah, she could have been confused by her mom’s questioning. this is the prosecution’s strongest point. and i have a hard time believing that her mom didn’t question her, despite her denials.
and yet: this standard would make it nigh impossible to ever convict anyone for molesting children.
and yet: something clearly happened to make her withdrawn and morose, and to make her not want to go back to her grandfather’s.
and yet: her grandfather confessed to touching her. in fact (i may not have said this above), he confessed to touching her twice.
the defense wants me to believe that his confession is useless because he didn’t know what was going on and he was scared and just telling them what they wanted to hear.
but:
(a) he was mirandized. in spanish. i heard it on the tape myself.
(b) the discussion was calm and peaceful and friendly. yeah. it’s intimidating being in police custody. yes, custody is inherently coercive. but miranda is supposed to protect against that – and really, unless some totally bad shit happened off tape which the defense has not alleged, this was about the nicest, gentlest police interrogation you could imagine. i know. i watched the tape.
(c) the details he volunteered matched the details provided by Jamilet.
Coincidence is possible. But we’re starting to get into the realm of unreasonable here. She was confused by her mom’s questioning into making these details up (possible) and her grandfather was intimidated by the police (possible) into making up details which coincidentally matched her details (possible, but incredibly unlikely).
The standard is “reasonable doubt”, not “all doubt”.
[On the third lewd/lascivious conduct charge, i'm uncertain: two events are confessed two. Jamilet says she remembers more, maybe as many as five. But we don't know how many, because she doesn't, and there's no other evidence. Probably we should err on the side of caution and only convict of things we are certian of.]
The question of penetration is where the defense spent most of its time, and it’s a tough one.
Jamilet remembers her step-grandpa putting his finger in her hole. (her word). there’s no physical evidence of same, and the tape of the questioning makes it clear that the police suggested that before she did. and yet: the defendant confessed.
I would have entered deliberations uncertain on this one, and would have wanted to talk to the jury; i can see it going both ways.
—————————————
The clerk called me to let me know the verdict.
Unanimous on all counts: guilty.
I’m pretty certain I would have hung the jury on one of the counts (Leslie), and I might have on the third penetration/lascivious conduct count. But not because I think he didn’t do it – because I think there’s reasonable doubt. There’s an alternative explanation which is possible and not totally absurd, and so the tie has to go to the defendant.
But i’m not unhappy with the verdict, either, because I’m certain he’s guilty. The doubts I can see as are theoretical doubts, doubts that my rational mind poses as possibilities that could explain the facts as stated. But, having listened to the testimony: having heard the tremors in the voices of the girls, and having listened to the absurd explanations the defendant offered to the police and having watched his defiant denials on the stand, and having listened to his wife testify against him about how she believed the allegations … I feel no doubt.
I don’t know if this is how the system is supposed to work.
Feedback